Not Hope
by peggie sue
Summary: /"She wants him to know: She tried. She'd have been lost if anything happened to you. Who else would put up with me?"/ Olivia visits Elliot. Set after Beast's Obsession.


She would sigh, but she doesn't do that anymore. Instead she does this thing where her face remains unchanging, her eyes unseeing. She gets dressed in the morning. She looks in the mirror. She goes to work, she does work. She thought she was stoic before, she thought she was empty before, but nothing is like this. Nothing at any time before this has been William Lewis' voice in her ears, against her neck, a whisper. _Time for a new game_.

Playing possum. Playing dead. That's what she'd done in the warehouse and it's what she does now, every minute of every day. For an instant there, she had been gone. She had died, and then she had opened her eyes with the awful unwanted surprise of being still alive. In the final seconds, she'd thought things. She'd admitted things. He had asked her what she would be thinking in the moment she died and she had thought it, selfishly.

She didn't think she would be around to handle the aftermath of that.

She didn't think she would be around.

Now she's on a train and she wonders what the fuck she's doing, because this—this is stupid. This is desperation. She remembers her mother reading to her something by Emily Dickinson, _hope is the thing with feathers, Olivia_, but she wonders why her mother neglected to mention that Emily Dickinson was a recluse, that the thing with feathers died alone. This isn't hope. Even minutes later in the cab it is not hope, even as his street approaches it is not hope.

The one car in the driveway. It is not hope.

The thing she'd been thinking in the moment she was going to die—

"Mommy!" the little girl squeals, "Daddy's got me, tell him to—_STOP IT_!" Laughter peels across the apartment, sunlight falls across bare feet, Elliot tosses a child in a princess dress over his shoulder and comes to meet her in the kitchen, grins, and in silence his eyes are saying—

_What about me?_

_Did you really expect me to? Did you really expect _me_ to cause your death?_

_Who else would put up with me?_

—that hadn't been hope either.

They'd told her in court today that it was her job or the baby. That she was presently unfit. She'd looked at that baby's picture—in her head she calls him Charlie, because that's what his name was before he became a ward of the state—and realized that he deserved better. He deserved the living instead of just the undead. He deserved a mother who could unsee the blood on the table, the time to play a new game, the this is the last thing you're gonna see, look away, Amelia.

He deserved the unmarred. She doesn't know what she deserves, she just knows that she should be crazy to consider Charlie a loss, a surrender. In that way he is like the daughter in the princess dress, _Daddy's gonna catch me_, and all the daughters and sons before. Calvin. Gladys's baby, who had died without a name.

Her, in relation to Serena.

Once, in the eleventh year of their partnership, after everything with Kathleen, he'd asked, "Did I ever tell you about the time I had lunch with your mother?"

"_No." _It must have been in their first year. Their second, their third.

"_She loved you, Olivia."_

"_She tried."_

"_She'd have been lost if anything happened to you. She said that, Liv."_

"_You didn't know her."_

"_I know you."_

Now she's telling the cab driver that here is fine, this is a good place to pull over, no you don't have to wait. Now she's in front of his house and she doesn't know what to say, she doesn't know what to ask, but she wants him to know: _She tried. She'd have been lost if anything happened to you. Who else would put up with me?_

She doesn't ever feel like she's walking quickly these days but she must be, she hopes she is, because it's cold outside. Even in May it's cold outside. A light flickers off in the living room, then on again in the hall. Inside, someone goes to bed. Blue light from the TV comes through a downstairs window, upstairs somebody pulls the blinds in their bedroom. She hovers in limbo, she hovers in between. She thinks, here is where lives go on, she thinks, hope is the thing with feathers, but she can't remember a time when that made sense.

She imagines that he'd embrace her. She imagines, in the moment before she's going to die—this is it, in front of his door, she swears this is it for real this time—that he'd look at her and then he'd _see_ her, really see, and pull her into his arms like before. The first time. _You're ok_. The second time._ Like hell you are_.

She knocks. Air leaves her lungs. She hears movement, the door pulling open, and then "Olivia." _Olivia? _Kathy Stabler's voice is familiar, maternal. There's something about her blonde ponytail and button down and the faint crow's feet around her eyes that make Olivia tired, make her hungry, make her feel like a child that needs to be lulled. She watches helplessly as Kathy takes in her hair, her sweater. Her slacks, her business-as-usual. The blonde's eyes soften. She feels pitied but in a graceful way, and she knows that Kathy is not angry. She sees a little backpack resting against the stairs in the front hallway, and little shoes. Eli must be seven now, maybe a little older.

_You're ok. _

_Just what the world needs—another Elliot Stabler._

It's that that does her in, forces her breath to hitch, her eyes to water. Her lip trembles and Kathy startles into action, hand coming to rest on her arm, head turning to look behind her, search for help, search for him. "My God, Olivia, are you alright?" but of course she is not alright, of course she already knows the answer. "Here. Come on—come inside." Her voice is comforting. The life here—the lives here—are comforting, comfortable. Olivia is instantly guilty.

_I don't wanna wreck that._

She holds up her hands. "No, I—is he...?—I think I need to talk to your husband." She is ashamed to recognize the broken, whispery way she speaks. She ashamed that it is no longer surprising. Customary, even.

Kathy nods, swallows. "Yeah," she says, soothingly. "Yeah. Come wait inside." _C'mere_.

Olivia stays on the porch.

She wonders what had been said then, out of her presence. She had watched Kathy ascend the stairs, stopping to pick up a book near the landing, a fallen artifact, evidence of the people inside. Evidence of the passage of time, evidence of how something as banal as that—time—is so pernicious in its universality. She's changed. She's never considered that within these years, he has too.

_I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see._

She imagines Kathy peeking into their bedroom, finding it empty. She imagines the other woman moving farther down the hall, passing bedrooms of children long since moved out, making her way towards where Eli should be sleeping. It's late. Babies should be sleeping. In her mind Elliot is sharing the bed with his son, trying somehow to read him into oblivion. When you're seven, you still like the little kid books. She doesn't actually know that, but she wants it to be true. She wants him to be saying, "Guess how much I love you." Eli yawns. Then, "Oh, I don't think I could guess that."

He would look up. He would see his wife. "You should come downstairs, Elliot." Or, "Olivia's here, Elliot." And his face would change. Her name in Eli's room, invading the protective space, the safety, yes, that would change him. Maybe he would stiffen. Maybe he'll come down any second now and tell her to leave.

The version she likes better is the one where he holds her. _Guess how much I love you. Oh, I don't think I could guess that. She tried. She'd have been lost if anything happened to you. Daddy's got me, tell him to—_

She hears a creak in the floorboards, footsteps on the landing, down the stairs. She turns around. She can't do this. She'll find another cab, she'll walk to the train station. Anything to be away from here, anything to be out of the space he left her in order to create. The Jeep in driveway. The bicycle in the yard, untethered to anything. The shoes in the foyer. The backpack by the stairs. Blue light from the TV coming through the window. His voice is something she can't hear or else she's sure that she will die; in fact she's sure that she was wrong now about dying. This will be the gunshot. Knowing she destroyed him too will be the fatal blow. She should protect him instead. She still can. _This is the last thing you're gonna think about, before you_—

"Daddy!" Laughter in the kitchen. The girl in the princess dress over his shoulder, the sunlight across bare feet. What he was going to say is, I love you, it's our turn for the carpool tomorrow, did anybody remember to feed the dog, I read that article you told me about.

How could time be banal.

She is halfway down the stairs when the front door opens again and a rush of cold comes through the air, and she hears him say "Oh, God, Olivia, _Olivia_" before she turns around and then his arms are around her.

_Like hell you are._

"I'm sorry," she tells him, because her fingers are clawing at the fabric of his shirt and she is breathing him in and pulling him close. "I'm so sorry."

"Olivia. Liv." He says her name like a litany. He's got her. Other than that, he does not know what to say.

_**A/N:**_ _To be continued (for like one more chapter) (if u want)._


End file.
